Fireplace
by which-chartreuse
Summary: The title has nothing to do with the story. A mostly plotless bit of Christmas-in-May, inspired by my Netflix addiction and newfound (platonic) Kastle addiction. It is what it is. Vague references to the events of Daredevil S2, Defenders, and Punisher S1.


**Spoilers:** Reference to Defenders character death, vague illusions to Daredevil season 2, Defenders, and Punisher season 1.  
 **A/N:** I've been binging the Marvel Netflix shows since school got out, and Karen Page is under my skin. I don't know why it felt like it needed to be set at Christmas since it is currently May, but that's what happened, so. This is what it is. Thanks for reading.

* * *

Karen Page wakes up on the couch for the fourth time in as many nights. The video of a crackling fire in a homey fireplace has played out on her laptop, and the streaming service suggests she watch a birchwood fire next. She roles herself to a sitting position, closes the computer, and blearily stares at the colored Christmas lights reflected against the white petals of the roses on her windowsill.

Her head throbs, reminding her of the many drinks shared with coworkers at the _Bulletin_ 's holiday party that evening. She stumbles toward the kitchen sink for a glass of water, peeling off her bright green cardigan as she goes. The sweater remains forgotten on the counter when she refills her glass and makes her way to the bed. It's suddenly cold in her apartment, but Karen is too tired and still too drunk to warm up in a hot shower before going back to sleep.

She curls up on top of the duvet without changing out of the cranberry red dress, and folds the comforter over on top of her. She nests in the soft warmth and closes her eyes.

But now that she's where she ought to be, Karen's mind isn't sleepy anymore. It's full of swirling memories, anxieties, and fears. A tightness grows in her throat as she remembers the traumas of the past year. Tears form beneath her closed lids, and her chest aches. How many times has she been kidnapped now? How many times have powers outside her control made her a hostage pawn in some twisted game of vengeance? How many people has she lost? She tries to pull positive thoughts to the forefront, but even these are tinged with darkness.

She thinks of David Lieberman and his family, their anxious but smiling faces on the evening news after David's testimony is heard in court. She thinks about Foggy and Marci, and the shiny new car they drove her home in after their Thanksgiving happy-hour. But then the empty casket at Matt Murdock's funeral, reflecting a dark sky on its polished surface, slides into focus. The desperation of her loneliness finally overwhelms her restraint, and Karen sobs into her pillow.

When she wakes again, the buzz of alcohol in her body has been completely replaced by the ache of hunger and a hangover. The clock on the nightstand reads after three, and Karen is cold again. This time she does trudge into the bathroom, strip away the clinging smell of smoke in her dress, and slip into the shower. The hot water is soothing and amplifying of her emotions at the same time. But she has cried herself to dry exhaustion, and imagines the darkness that haunts her washing away down the drain.

She knows something is wrong when she steps out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. She pulls her robe tighter around herself, and curls her toes against the cold wood floor as she reaches for the pistol between the mattress and the headboard. She steps cautiously into the living area and sees the open window first, the roses now set on the floor. Then she sees the dark mass rising from the couch and levels the gun.

"It's me," the figure speaks. "Karen, it's me." His voice is rough as a thunderstorm. His hands are raised and open in surrender, and now the ache in her chest explodes outward. She engages the safety and stows the gun in her bathrobe pocket before stepping toward him in the half-dark.

His hair is growing long again, but his beard is neat and groomed. He doesn't look like a hipster or a soldier anymore, but some intangible third hybrid of many people with many meanings. And he's alive. That's the part of him that matters most.

"Frank," she speaks his name and waits, testing the sound. He smiles his half-hearted smile at her and drops his arms to his sides.

"Yeah," he acknowledges.

For the second time, Karen finds herself running toward Frank Castle and wrapping her arms around him. She just wants to hold him and know that he's real. To feel the solidity of another living being against her. She clings to him, and breathes in the metallic scent of blood and sweat that permeates him, even under the sharp cleanliness of cheap soap. And he holds her, too.

He holds her carefully, just firm enough that she knows he wants to be there. Firm without being fierce. When full minutes go by and she doesn't let go, though, he grips her tighter, pulling her to him. He is still gentle, but somehow less cautious. His calloused hand cradles her head and neck, fingers tangled in damp hair. He folds himself into the crook of her neck and inhales, drawing her in, and exhales a warm gust against her bare skin. Her hands clench fistfuls of his jacket, his waist, then his shoulders, until finally he gingerly extricates himself from her.

Karen watches him, waiting for him to disappear through the open window, but he doesn't move. His eyes watch her, too. She thinks he is hesitating, waiting for some cue. She doesn't know what it is, but she doesn't want him to go, either. So, she goes to the window, closes it, and returns to the space right in front of him.

She smiles, and places her hand against his rough cheek. "You're alive," she says, and almost laughs when the words come out. The smile that responds reaches his eyes this time, and he ducks his head.

"Yeah, I am," he says.

"Maybe it is a merry Christmas."


End file.
